


Morning in Noldor Tower

by FactorialRabbits



Series: Life in Neon - A Cyberpunk AU [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cyberpunk!AU, Feanor fixes all problems in his life by making magitech, I really should have proof read this a third time but wanted to publish an actual thing, I'd tag each son but they're exceptionally bitty parts, Its mostly Feanor internally monologuing, Maglor is a horrible gossip who doesn't know what's good for him, Mentions of addiction, The Valar are mentioned, and are also firewalls against hacking?, just monologuing and rambling and possibly some breakfast, or well scene setting for such, plot? what plot? none to be found here, the silmarils are magitech which stop the main disadvantage of being an elf in this AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 17:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14958987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FactorialRabbits/pseuds/FactorialRabbits
Summary: Its been three days since Fëanáro last slept. Three days to finish his third silmaril, a creation to save the lives of his children. With the dawn it is finally complete, and instead he gifts it to his 4-year-old grandson.





	Morning in Noldor Tower

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for discussions of addiction in a society that really doesn't deal well with it. Not of the substances variety, but it may as well be a heavy handed analogy. 
> 
> This is incredibly rambly, with a small amount of family fluff towards the end. I'm not sure I'm happy with it, but its basically just an excuse for me to dump a load of setting info in one place. Not sure I'll ever get to the bulk of the narrative, tbh. I'm terrible at long term projects. Like, there's a plan and there's the last chapter before the epilogue drafted. Quenya names, Atyarussa is the elder Ambarussa, Minyarussa the younger. I think. I honestly get them mixed up more often than I can count.
> 
> Ages and time is weird when you're an elf. I just human scaled it. Because I've given up on the scales in non-canon settings, after the headache canon-compliant ones cause.
> 
> Still working on the other thing I was supposed to be writing. But that Curufin just won't coperate.

The morning came, thick with smog and fumes. The neon lights of the city continued to flicker far beyond the windows, the weak sunlight not reaching the people below. The Three Great Towers of Valimar Industries was beginning to awaken; lights in the corridors flickered on, and the peaceful voice of Varda welcomed everyone to work and wished them a productive morning. Those on the lowest floors moved slower, with less anticipation, than those above. The mass of men and elves and dwarves elbowed their ways through the corridors, making for the large communal dining halls. These served all but the most senior workers, and their families. Those senior enough to live above the smog line still found rain to greet them, beating heavily on windows, and made their ways to smaller, family dining halls instead. Sound began to ring through the hallways, and the machines of the factories began to whirr into life, ready for their engineers to attend them.

Fëanáro ignored all of this; it had been three days since he had slept. His workshop was an organised chaos of parts and scrap, much of it salvaged from the waste of those same factories. Upon the desk, nearly completed, was the inoperative shape of a Silmaril. They were prized creations of Noldor Fabrications, the subsidiary of Valimar Industries headed by Fëanáro's father Finwë – beautiful, glowing orbs of crystal, radiation and high-end technology. It was not the glow, however, for which they were most valuable; making light was easy. Just look at all the neon signs, all the glowing clothing stripes, in areas where people couldn't even afford crackers. Where they had no board to protect them from the smog, the gangs and the world.

No, what made these creations special was that, when synchronised with the biosignature of a person, they mitigated the majority of the negative effects of technological implants – the vulnerabilities to hackers exposed by interactions between implants, and the mental and physical degradation which came with them. The former effect was a problem for all the races, the latter exclusive to elves. Men took the implants with no problems, and dwarves seemed to thrive with them. But an elf inserting this technology into themselves? He could almost guarantee to damage his fëa. And a damaged fëa would in turn corrupt the hröa, which would further degrade the fëa, in an unending loop. It was why you never found elves working the factory floors, despite the advantages of immortal workers; they couldn't physically handle enough implants to operate the machines. So instead they worked the highest rungs of society, design and thinking and artistic creation, whilst men and dwarves saw to the implementation. At least, that was the rule of thumb; there were always exceptions. And the streets would always be willing take you regardless of your race, if you were truly desperate. Fëanáro was not really sure what the streets were like; he had been born and always lived in the Noldor Tower, had never even stepped below the 53rd floor. All he knew was the hushed whispers of horror, and how Nienna would weep about it.

Of course, most elves still took one or two implants - they were just too convenient and the infrastructure of the cities required at least one to even so much as make a phonecall - but rarely more than that. Then there were the exceptions.

Fëanáro's fifth son, Curufinwë, was an example of an elf who loved technology in a way that was neither normal nor healthy; the existence of tech addiction was well recorded among men and dwarves, some bankrupting themselves for just a little more power, but the presence of it was kept quiet among elves. Considered shameful. More shameful than nearly anything else. Fëanáro wasn't sure exactly why, though he would assume the elven superiority complex; he rarely had the time or patience to deal with societal whims. What mattered was that his son, whom he loved, who was intelligent and brave and curious and inspired and brilliant in every other way, was addicted to implants. He didn't know how to help - the resources didn't exist, and he regularly cursed the lives lost and harm done by this lack - but he knew what he could do. Fëanáro was a technological genius; if anyone could make something which would halt degradation, he reckoned it was him.

The thing which surprised everyone was that he did.

It had taken years, but finally he had made the first Silmaril, tested it on himself. It annoyed him that he did not know the exact mechanism by which it worked, but it seemed to absorb the degradation that would be gained by an elf to whom it was synchronised. And, more to the point, he could recreate his efforts. Nobody else had been successful in doing so, but Fëanáro himself could. And so, after testing the first on himself, he made more.

The second had been given to Curufinwë. And Fëanáro thanked everything he could think of, silently of course, that Curufinwë had not progressed beyond the point of dehumanisation; the point at which the authorities would call him an abomination instead of an elf, that those on the street would see it as their duty to kill his darling child. Noticeable for sure, but still identifiably elven. With their status and resource, you could barely even see traces of the implants on his skin. 

Only when that was complete did Fëanáro give himself time, a break from the project. In the end he took Nerdanel on holiday to a resort run by another of Valimar Industries' subsidiary companies, Vanya Entertainment, pleasuring her in every way he knew how, before spending a week with each of his sons in turn; he discussed terrible romance novels with his exceptional Maitimo; suffered club after club and drink after drink to hear his sweetest Makalaurë sing, to listen to him divulge his gossip; complained not once as his beautiful Tyelkormo took him away camping hip deep in clay-based mud; tended flowers for his beloved Carnistir as he painted life onto silk; studied the secrets of the universe with his brilliant Curufinwë; danced in the light of Yavanna’s giant, glowing mushrooms with his delightful Atyarussa; and brewed mouth-wateringly alcoholic beverages with his darling Minyarussa.

Then it was back to work - both his own project and those for the Valar. As the wife and children of the firstborn son of the head of Noldor Fabrications, the only threats to their happy existence were internal. Of those, Curufinwë's had been the most pressing. But now they were controlled, made non-threatening by the joint powers of Fëanáro's mind and the wonders of technology.

And so, two Silmarils sat, safely locked away in Finwë's apartments, slowly syphoning corruption away from their synchronised elves. He had studied for a long time; distance was irrelevant to their effectiveness, a funny thing in and of itself.

This third Silmaril he had simply started making to work through protecting all his children - even those who cared little for the upgrades, such as Carnistir, needed some for their work. Though the degradation was little, there was still the hacking risk; part of the synchronisation process functioned as a firewall, the Silmaril's interference scrambling data and making it untameable to the outside. It was even possible one of his sons could be hurt, and need implants to retain their quality of life. False eyes, false limbs, even false organs were possible and controlled by technology.

But then Curufinwë had sired a son, a wonderful child whom Fëanáro loved just as much as his sons. His sons, whom if he loved any more he would surely die from it. So, he had decided to give the third to the now four-year-old. He wouldn't appreciate this gift yet, but studies among men-folk strongly indicated that the children of tech addicts would grow up to follow in their footsteps. Better to ward the child against ill effects before they happened, than having to worry. His seven, ostensibly adult sons caused more than enough of that already. Minyarussa and Atyarussa had been banned from ever entering a workshop the other was in thanks to the distraction they caused to both each other and everyone else. They had nearly lost limbs more times than could be counted, only being saved by Maitimo' eternally watchful gaze and Tyelkormo's inhumanely fast reflexes.

Twisting one of the components into position, Fëanáro turned his mind from musings. The Silmaril powered itself with a small nuclear device, safe due to the shielding and the way the EM waves interacted with the crystal. The very same interactions that gave the Silmarils their beautiful glows and comforting warmth. The power would last for aeons, safely enclosed, and by the time they ran out he would surely have had time to craft replacements. Until it was within the shield, though, Fëanáro needed his full attention.  
His laboratory may have been a mess, and he might have skipped sleep in favour of work, but safety with radioactive materials was of utter importance. 

He flipped a switch beneath the workbench, lighting up a sign outside, and got to work. With specialised gloves and a steady hand, he pushed apart the tangle of wires, setting the carefully shaped chunk of unstable metal into its position. With tweezers the wires were pulled back into place, reconnected where they had parted. The underside was already giving its soft glow - white until it synchronised. Satisfied with the connections, Fëanáro placed the last piece of shielding into place, then fused it to the rest by melting the crystal pieces together. The seal was tested and radiation level checked, before he flicked back off the warning light. A moment later, his wife walked in.

"Do you need breakfast bringing up?" she was dressed for work, vibrant red hair pulled into a braid and apron covering her uniform.

"No, no, just finished," Fëanáro picked up the orb, fitting comfortably in his hand, and showed it to her. "I'll come join you. We can synch Telpë up after work."

Her smile was small, but she pressed a kiss to his cheek, "come, love. The boys are wondering where you got to."

Because of course she would bring his adult sons to try and tempt him to breakfast. Usually they ate apart, in smaller groups of themselves or with their families. Nerdanel lead the way down to the living room, Fëanáro stopping to put the Silmaril into a safe and wash his hands on the way.

Sure enough, seven adult sons, and a 4-year-old grandson, were sat between the sofas and floor, bickering lightly. As he entered, the room fell silent as all eight turned to look at him. Atyarussa was the first to break into a grin, but Minyarussa was the one to run up and throw his arms around his neck. Once his youngest had had his fill of contact, Fëanáro pulled up a chair and helped himself to a plate of fruits.

"So, who wants to update their poor, overworked father on company gossip?" He leant back.

"You love your work," Tyelkormo accused, voice light if loud.

Fëanáro grinned at him, as Carnistir looked put out by the lost opportunity to be sarcastic.

"Well," it was Makalaurë who spoke next, one hand twirling his hair whilst his voice meandered. "If its gossip you wanted, did you hear about Angrod and Eldalótë? Aunt Findis reckons there'll be a wedding before the year's out, but uncle Arafin's denying everything still – even after a dear friend of ours walked in on them. Outside the family, Nessa, Oromë's sister? Totally hooking up with Tulkas. I-"

"Mak, should you really be spreading gossip about the Valar?" Maitimo's look was fond, if concerned, as he cut his brother off.

"If they didn't want it spreading, they wouldn't have told me now, would they?" Makalaurë retorted.

"Oh, yes, because the Valar are the heights of reason and never in the slightest bit petty," Carnistir looked a little happier for having got the sarcasm out.

"Boys, boys," Nerdanel waved her hands. "Maybe steer away from discussions of the people who pay us? As sure as I am they'd be fine with it, I'd rather not have it over our heads. Now, who wants coffee?"

With the conversation efficiently redirected, the breakfast passed in a lively manner, Nerdanel's watchful ears keeping them from anything likely to cause trouble. Of course, trouble was attracted to the family. 

At the end of the meal, as everyone was getting together their tools for work, he cleared his throat, "Curufinwë? Would you mind bringing Telpërinquar to my workshop this evening? I have an early birthday gift for him, and would rather sort it before the big day."

Curufinwë turned, Telpërinquar perched on his hip. One of the data-ports on the back of his hand flickered slightly as his son poked at it, his mouth twitching into an approximation of a smile.

"Gift?" Telpërinquar's eyes lit up. "Grandpa got me gift?"

"Yes, I did," Fëanáro petted his grandson's head. "And you'll get it this afternoon."

Excited eyes looked adoringly from Fëanáro to Curufinwë, "Grandpa got me gift!"

"I heard!" Curufinwë mocked exclamation for his son. "And after Daddy’s done with his work, we'll go get it. Then we'll go show Mami, yes?"

Telpërinquar nodded excitedly, nearly causing Curufinwë to drop him. A shift of quick movements saved them both from a collision with the floor.

"Let’s get you to class, then, little gem," Curufinwë poked Telpërinquar gently on the nose before turning back to his father with an awkward smile. "And thanks, Dad."

Fëanáro nodded, and a moment’s silence between them became awkward as Curufinwë’s mind wandered. He wondered what he thought about in those moments. Telpë began to suck on his thumb, and Curufinwë absently removed it from his mouth.

"Come on, Curvo. We're going to be late!" Tyelkormo yelled from the doorway.

Startled back to reality, Curufinwë pressed a kiss to Fëanáro's cheek. The wires just below the skin of son's face made an odd sensation as he did so. A moment later and he joined his brother in the door, the two bickering lightly on their way to the school rooms and then to work.

Fëanáro himself had the day off. Nerdanel appeared again at his shoulder, breakfast efficiently cleared away, "my dear, you should get some sleep. How long has it been?"  
He didn't feel the need to argue as he was lead to their room.

Hours later he would awaken, in time to set up the equipment, and Curufinwë would bring Telpërinquar with him. Aulë would come too - no doubt trying to determine if this technology was suitable for marketing - whilst Maitimo and Nerdanel provided their eternally steady hands. Maeadis, Curufinwë's wife, was wrangling Telpërinquar, whilst Curufinwë himself helped Fëanáro with technical aspects of the synchronisation. 

When the process was complete, the Silmaril took on a lime green glow. Fëanáro was not yet sure what caused the colouration, just that it appeared to be different for people; his was bright and indistinct as an inferno, whilst Curufinwë's had taken on an almost glittery red colour. And, that done, he presented Telpërinquar with a selection of toy cars, hand crafted from the scraps leftover from crafting the Silmaril. As expected, the boy was much more thrilled with the cars than the strange glowing orb he wasn’t allowed to chew. Fëanáro smiled; how wonderful to be a child, so unconcerned with the world?

And so, the family parted, and Nerdanel took her husband back to their chambers. She fell asleep with ease, whilst he stayed awake for some time; the nap earlier had ruined his chances.

As he tried to think of something to do, a memo flashed up on his comm; Fëanáro flicked it open. An invitation to a private meeting with the Valar in a week's time. Most likely to discuss monetising the Silmarils. Despite his confidence he could negotiate himself the advantage - especially if he took one of his half-brothers or Maitimo - he couldn't shake the feeling of something about to go horribly wrong. He looked at the date, and groaned; it would clash with Telpërinquar’s fifth birthday celebrations. But he also couldn’t exactly decline. Still, that didn’t cover the unsettled sensation…

Deciding he really didn’t want to deal with working that specific problem right now, he curled up to his wife and held her close. She murmured, sleep slightly disturbed by his action, and a lazy arm moved to cover his hip in an approximation of an embrace. He leaned in, kissing her gently.

He was safe. His wife was safe. So were his children, their partners, and his grandson. His brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews, too. They were the Finwions, scions of Noldor Fabrications, safe on the 6500th floor of the complex, protection and livelihoods personally guaranteed by the Valar, the executives of the largest and most stable corporation in all Arda, themselves. And of course father was safe; who would dare raise a hand towards him? Everything was, ever had been, and would ever be, just fine.

So why did it feel like it wouldn't?


End file.
